Red Strokes
by obsessedwithstabler
Summary: The last thing he heard was the sound of screeching tires and a dull thud. Then he knew no more.


Another little oneshot cowritten with Quadrophenia73 and inspired by a picture on Facebook. Read on and enjoy.

Disclaimer: Not ours!

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The bitter London air stung at John Watson's face as he made his way down the sidewalk. It was a week before Christmas and all around him everyone was happy. Children were laughing and lovers walked arm in arm, carrying bags and bags of elaborately wrapped gifts.

John had never felt more alone.

Pulling his collar up more, he braced himself against the biting wind and trudged on. Three years had passed since he watched his best friend throw himself from the roof of a building. He could still hear the sound of Sherlock's body connecting with the concrete. The sound haunted his dreams every night, replacing his nightmares of the war he had suffered for years.

At that moment, he would have given anything just to see Sherlock one more time.

A sudden shriek interrupted his dark thoughts. John looked up to see a little boy, no more than four or five years old, dart into the street. Swearing, John bolted ahead, his feet sliding and seeking purchase on the icy sidewalk.

Just as he came within a few feet of the boy, the sound of a horn blowing made him look up. A car was coming straight at them. He didn't have time to think. He shoved himself toward the boy and wrapped his arms around the tiny body.

The last thing he heard was the sound of screeching tires and a dull thud. Then he knew no more.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes sighed softly as he absorbed the news. Two days ago, his brother had texted him with the news that the last of Moriarty's organization had been brought down and he would be able to come home soon. Now Mycroft was concerned Sherlock wouldn't get home soon enough.

The newspaper lay in front of him, headlines bold and splashed above a picture of John Watson.

Local Doctor Comatose After Saving Boy.

Mycroft had been weighing the decision for hours of whether or not to tell his brother. His fingers hesitated over the screen of his phone. Finally he made up his mind.

_It's John_… -MH.

He let out a breath and sent it.

_Something's happened to him_. –MH.

The third and final text was the hardest for Mycroft to send, but he managed it.

_You need to come back, Sherlock. For him_. –MH.

With that, Mycroft set his phone down and pushed the newspaper aside.

* * *

Somewhere hundreds of miles away, Sherlock was lying in bed, more awake than asleep. The last three years had taken a toll on him for the worse. He hadn't seen John since that day he watched his best friend visit his grave three years ago.

He never considered himself an emotional or sentimental person. In fact, the very idea of expressing feelings or developing emotional attachments made him laugh. But he couldn't let go of the sound of John's voice as he pleaded him not to jump and the way he spoke to Sherlock's empty grave.

His phone beeped on the night stand, several times, alerting him of several texts and snapping him out of his thoughts. He reached for it and was puzzled for a moment when the phone's screen displayed three texts from his elder brother.

_It's John_... -MH. Sherlock became very alert at that one.

_Something's happened to him_. -MH. Sherlock sat upright in bed.

_You need to come home, Sherlock. For him. _-MH_._ Sherlock's stomach dropped ten floors and he was briefly and guiltily reminded of jumping off of the roof.

"John..." he whispered. His hands shook as he typed a text in response, almost dropping his phone.

_What happened? Tell me. Now_. -SH.

* * *

Mycroft wasn't surprised when he received a text less than five minutes later demanding him to tell Sherlock of John's condition. Mycroft frowned and typed out a reply; Sherlock simply needed to come home.

_He was hit by a car. No brain function. You need to come say goodbye_. -MH.

* * *

Sherlock didn't try to muffle the curse that followed. He threw the bedclothes to the side and hopped out of bed. _No_, he thought to himself. _Damn it, John. No_.

_I'm coming. Send the fastest method of transportation_. -SH.

He changed out of his pyjamas and tossed his phone into his coat pocket. He was going home. He knew that he would be going home on bad circumstances anyway, but he never imagined it would be this way.

Sherlock started to talk out loud to himself. "I'm coming, John. But it's not goodbye."

* * *

To Sherlock's relief, Mycroft sent a private helicopter to take him to London. He arrived on London soil on New Year's Eve.

* * *

Molly sniffled as she heard someone counting down the seconds until the new year was ushered in. To her, it was nothing to celebrate. Beside her, John lay motionless and pale in the hospital bed. She knew his family wanted nothing more than to ease his pain, but she was struggling to let him go.

The last thing she expected this late was a visitor. The door creaked open but Molly didn't take her eyes from John's face.

Sherlock took several long strides closer to John's bed, feeling his chest constrict when he saw how pale his best friend was and all the wires connected to him.

Hearing the intruder approach, Molly frowned. "It's very late..." Her voice died on her lips when she found herself looking at Sherlock Holmes. "Oh..."

Sherlock absently touched John's hand. "How long has he been like this?"

"Since Christmas Eve." She stood up and motioned for Sherlock to take her seat. "His brain function has almost completely ceased."

Sherlock didn't say a word as he sat down and touched John's hand. He swallowed the hard lump in his throat.

"His family wants to turn off his life support day after tomorrow."

"No," Sherlock insisted firmly.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. They have his medical proxy and they believe he isn't John anymore."

"They're wrong."

She reached down and squeezed his shoulder consolingly. "Would you like me to give you a couple of minutes with him?"

Sherlock knew he didn't need to answer that one. He just let out a shaky breath and curled his fingers around John's hand.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock." Molly quietly left the room.

Once they were alone, Sherlock felt as if the weight of the world rested upon his shoulders. "I guess you want to know why I'm here. About that... if you can hear me, you can probably tell I'm not dead," he chuckled bitterly.

John remained silent and still in the bed. The only sound in the room was the hiss of the ventilator and the beep of the heart monitor.

Sherlock wasn't sure whether he had expected a response or not. "Maybe I'm just talking to air. Maybe you're just ignoring me." He kept his hand over John's as he shifted in the hard chair. "I hope the person who hit you died in the accident," he said bluntly. He didn't know if he was speaking more to John or to himself, but he meant it.

* * *

Molly went home after she left the hospital. She had been with John almost every day since his accident and the only reason she left now was because she knew John would rather have Sherlock at his side. When she got home, she took a shower and made a sandwich before she collapsed into bed.

* * *

The next morning, Molly arrived at the hospital just after ten. When she got to John's room and opened the door, she was surprised. Sherlock had dragged his chair as close to John's bed as he could and draped himself over John's abdomen. His left hand was stretched atop John's head and his right arm clasped John possessively to him.

"Oh, Sherlock," Molly whispered sadly.

Sherlock stirred in his sleep and buried his face in John's stomach when he heard footsteps nearing him.

Spotting the blanket Molly had used the past few nights, she picked it up and draped it gently over Sherlock. Then she ran a slender hand over his hair.

Sherlock remained asleep for another fifteen minutes before he stirred awake and opened his eyes. It took several moments to realize where he was.

John still laid in the bed, his face deathly blank. Sherlock sat up and stretched, never taking his eyes off of John.

Molly rested a kind hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "His parents will be here tomorrow morning."

Sherlock's face clouded over. "They're not taking him off life support."

"What about John's wishes? Did he ever discuss with you what he wanted in the event of something like this?"

"No. But he can make it."

"Sherlock..." She dropped to her knee by the chair and gently grasped his arm. "I've spoken with his doctors. The machines are keeping him alive. He has no brain function or ability to breathe on his own."

"He can make it," Sherlock repeated more loudly.

Uncertain of what else she could say, Molly nodded sadly.

"Okay."

* * *

Sherlock remained with John until the following morning, when John's parents arrived. Allison was in tears and Jake kept a solemn, stoic look as they studied their son.

Sherlock looked up at them warily and didn't speak a word.

John's physician stepped into the room, a solemn look on his face.

Allison stifled a soft sob. "My baby," she breathed.

Jake slid his arms around her shoulders and pulled her into a protective embrace.

Immediately Sherlock felt tense. He gave the physician a cold stare. "What?"

The physician simply gave him an apologetic look.

Less than a minute later, John was extubated and all machines were cut off.

As soon as John struggled to breathe, Allison began to weep openly. She moved around the bed, across from Sherlock, and took her son's hand gently. "I love you, sweetheart," she whispered.

Sherlock's heartbeat started to race as John started struggling to breathe. "John. I know you can hear me. Now start listening." Of course he couldn't prove that John could hear him but somehow he felt certain of it.

After close to an hour of watching her son struggle, Allison couldn't do it anymore. She kissed John's forehead and whispered her goodbyes, then left with her husband.

Molly stayed with Sherlock and John, but reluctantly. She stayed to support Sherlock, all the while wondering if she would be better off leaving them alone. John's physician had said he could last a little while longer yet, which made Molly hurt. The last thing she wanted was to see him suffer. She also didn't want to see Sherlock suffer, for that matter.

Watching John struggle was so painful that Sherlock almost wanted to plug the machines back into him on his own. A sinking feeling started to well up inside him.

Molly counted the minutes, expecting each breath to be John's last. The last thing in the world she expected was to see John start to take deep, steady breaths after another half-hour. She started to point this out to Sherlock, but the last thing she wanted was to raise his hopes only to see them be dashed when John stopped breathing. So she stayed quiet and watched John's face.

_Please_...

* * *

As the seconds and minutes crawled by, Molly noticed Sherlock lean forward and return his face to John's abdomen. Not wanting to disturb him with her pacing, she sat down in the empty chair across from him. Her fingers trembled as she laid them gently on John's arm.

_You look sad when you think he can't see you_.

"You would have been proud of him, Sherlock," she finally murmured.

Sherlock startled slightly but didn't look up. "What?" he mumbled, his voice muffled.

"You would have been-" Something caught Molly's eye and she turned her head slowly. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock lifted his head slightly and gave her a puzzled look.

She motioned to John's face, her own pallor pale and almost hopeful.

John's eyes were open.

"John! John, can you hear me?"

John's eyes slowly settled on Sherlock, eventually watering. The tears spilled down his cheeks and he looked away.

Sherlock had expected such a response. "I see you've been going on adventures without me," he chuckled emptily, hoping to get a different response although his voice lacked any reassurance.

Molly was surprised when John's eyes locked on her. She was even more surprise at the amount of fear and grief she saw in his blue eyes. It suddenly hit her; he didn't believe Sherlock was really there. Grabbing his hand, she squeezed his fingers tightly. "John, he's really here. He's alive."

"She's telling the truth, John. I'm right beside you."

"I'm getting a doctor." Molly stood up and started to pull her hand away, but John's grasp was strong. She looked at Sherlock helplessly before turning her sad eyes back to John. "John, turn your head," she pleaded. "Look at Sherlock. He's here with you." Her own guilt over helping Sherlock fake his death and subsequently hiding it from John made her heart ache. "Please, just look."

John blinked slowly but didn't move.

"John...?" Molly leaned closer. "Can you understand me?" She lifted his hand. "Squeeze my hand if you understand me."

A short eternity passed, but finally John's fingers squeezed hers slightly.

Molly let out a sigh of relief. "Good. You gave us all a scare. I need to get your doctor so he can look you over."

John looked afraid, but he reluctantly released her hand.

"It's going to be okay," she soothed, smoothing her hand over his forehead. "I'll be right back."

With that, she rushed out of the room, leaving Sherlock alone with his wounded and possibly dying best friend.

"You've got to look at me, John. I'm real." He rested his hand on the bed, lightly brushing against John's arm. "Otherwise you wouldn't feel me. Are you listening?"

John shuddered and closed his eyes. New tears rolled down his cheeks.

Sherlock closed his eyes and let out a long breath. "You still don't think I'm here."

John opened his mouth to speak but he was too weak to make any sounds.

When John at least made an attempt to speak, Sherlock felt more at ease. "Do you want me to call a nurse? Nod yes or no."

Molly hurried back into the room with John's doctor in tow.

Dr. Ennis came into the room, clearly surprised. "This is remarkable..." he muttered as he hurried to the bed and began checking John's pulse and pupil response.

Molly stood a distance from the bed, her arms crossed and her brows knitted together in concern and some disbelief.

"Nothing short of a miracle." Ennis quickly placed an oxygen mask over John's face and secured it in place.

"He was breathing on his own. Why does he need the mask again?" Sherlock demanded.

"This is just a precaution to keep him comfortable."

Still wary, Sherlock kept a grip on John's hand and eyed the doctor as he checked John over.

John's eyes closed during the examination, much to the chagrin of all.

Ennis listened to John's heart for a minute. "Respiration is a little shallow, but his heart rate is excellent."

"What caused the change?"

"I'm not sure. I thought he would have passed by now."

"It was you, Sherlock," Molly declared softly. "You brought him back to us."

"That makes no sense." Sherlock shook his head. "He's supposed to be screaming at me."

"He's not the same man he was three years ago." Molly rested her hand on her forehead. "God, Sherlock, I'm afraid I messed this all up..."

"What are you talking about?"

"He asked me to marry him, Sherlock. I said yes."

Sherlock went eerily silent for a long, long moment. "I was going to come back all along," he said after a long silence.

"He didn't know that and you made me swear not to tell him."

"I know that but why become engaged?"

"Because we care about each other." Finding the only other available seat in the room, Molly sat down and held her head in her hands. "I love him, Sherlock."

"_I_ care about him," Sherlock muttered flatly. Under any other circumstance, he would have never confessed that he cared about someone, but this time was different.

"I know you do." Sitting up suddenly, she said, "I need some air." She kissed John and left the room.

"Oh, John," Sherlock sighed. "I leave three years and you've already gotten engaged and hit by a car. I knew I should have placed surveillance on you."

John didn't respond and for the rest of the night, Sherlock watched over him, a silent guardian.

* * *

John's entire body ached the next morning as he reluctantly awoke from sleep. His head was foggy and he struggled to breathe without sending agony through his ribs. Without thought he choked out, "Sherlock."

Sherlock had started to nod off, but he became alert when he heard his name. "John."

Slowly John turned his head. His eyes widened. "You're…you're really here..." he breathed.

"Yes, I really am."

"Oh, God..." John began to weep. He felt Sherlock lean in and without warning John reached out and pulled Sherlock into a long, deep kiss.

Sherlock was caught off guard for a moment but after a hesitation he softened his lips against John's.

The kiss was hard and brutal, desperate and life-affirming. John brought his arm up and wrapped it around Sherlock's shoulders, pulling him even closer despite the pain it caused. It was over all too soon and he felt weak and drained. He was surprised when he felt warm arms embrace him and he surrendered willingly.

At the door, Molly stood with tears in her eyes as the kiss ended and Sherlock gathered John into his arms. She could have chalked it up to a near-death experience and continued on in her relationship with John, but she would never be first. He would never love her the way she wanted to be loved.

With a soft sob, she removed her engagement ring.

Sherlock froze when he heard Molly enter the room and started to pull away from John.

Meeting Sherlock's eyes, she mustered a weak smile. "Take care of him," she whispered.

"I wouldn't consider doing otherwise."

Nodding, Molly set her engagement ring down. Then she walked out of the room before she could change her mind.

Sherlock returned his attention to John as Molly left the room. He felt uncertain but leaned back in closer to John's lips.

John fell asleep a few moments later while kissing Sherlock again. His head dropped slowly until it rested against Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock wasn't very comfortable wedged between John and the side of the narrow hospital bed, but he shifted slightly and slid his arms around John's waist.

A nurse stepped into the room a short while later. Seeing her patient sleeping peacefully in the arms of a very protective looking man, she had to smile.

It wasn't every day she was able to see such a shining example of true love.

_Finis._


End file.
